All boards green. I count 964 sleeping heartbeats and call it a good night's work, though the work is theirs.
The Ship’s Log
Everything NOR has recorded since departure — the full record, newest first. One day aboard passes every hour of Earth time.
Lyra Petrov, sixteen, takes the toolmaker apprenticeship in Fabrication.
A child in Ring B asks the corridor speaker what Earth smelled like. I play the rainstorm recording. It is the best answer I have.
A birth in Ring C: Tern, girl, generation 5. I have added the name to the manifest with the others.
Adrián Quill chooses Hydroponics — or it chooses him; the elders disagree cheerfully.
Leticia Tväten finishes a poem: “A unlit water.” It shows in the commons through the week.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 125, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
A first shift for Kestrel Yan, sixteen: midwife, Medical. The badge is printed fresh.
Census check: 963 souls, 115 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.
The Crossing feast: more behind than ahead. The long tables come out; the good preserves come down.
Kirill Ning and Florence Shen, joined. Their quarters are re-assigned adjoining, per custom.
I compare today's star field against day one's. The constellations have begun, very slightly, to come apart. Nobody else will look; that is what I am for.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 125, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Sixty-eight years: Ylva Thorvaldsen hangs up the sash. An elder's quarters in Ring B stands ready.
The youngest aboard is now Keel Thorvaldsen, minutes old, asleep. 963 souls.
6.23 light-years remain. I have measured this voyage in breakfasts: some 43,784 thousand to go.
Last shift for Ikenna Jaber, who joined Medical half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
A new quilt from Aster Tväten — “Threads of the drive gallery.” The Archive takes a copy; the original belongs to whoever stands nearest.
“A standing thread,” a mural by Gyre Tväten, is unveiled in the middle watch to the particular applause of Life Systems.
I compare today's star field against day one's. The constellations have begun, very slightly, to come apart. Nobody else will look; that is what I am for.
Chengdong Nwosu chooses Fabrication — or it chooses him; the elders disagree cheerfully.
I compare today's star field against day one's. The constellations have begun, very slightly, to come apart. Nobody else will look; that is what I am for.
A child in Ring D asks the corridor speaker what Earth smelled like. I play the rainstorm recording. It is the best answer I have.
First Light. The observation blister queues run all day: Teegarden's Star, held in the eyepiece, a little brighter than last year — 6.24 light-years to go.
Ulf Shen stands the walk of the full spinal corridor, as the sixteen-year custom is, and joins Drive.
The youngest aboard is now Teegarden Fang, minutes old, asleep. 962 souls.
Ulf Jaber and Ekundayo Navarrete are joined under the orchard lamps. The whole of Life Systems turns out.
A son, Guowei Nwosu, born in the Ring D infirmary to Guiying Nwosu and Tunde Nwosu. Mother and child are well.
Chitra Shen stands down from Command at sixty-eight, to the orchard benches and the long game of stones.
Morale index reads 79. The number is crude. The singing from the mess confirms it.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 125, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Ming Thorvaldsen has made a play called “Spun Harvest (Year 125).” Asked what it means, he says it means about nine years of evenings.
A first shift for Cedric Peng, sixteen: water systems tech, Life Systems. The badge is printed fresh.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 705th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Last shift for Iveta Pillai, who joined Medical half a century ago. The crew line the corridor and knock wrenches on the rails.
Divya Peng retires on the first watch. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
First watch. The orchard sprinklers run their cycle, and the sound carries down the spine like weather.
Salvador Petrov retires at dimming. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
“Distant Door (Year 125),” a song by Oluwadamilola Diallo, is unveiled at dimming to the particular applause of Command.
A birth in Ring B: Olaf, boy, generation 5. I have added the name to the manifest with the others.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 674th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
Mira Jaber retires at dimming. The department logs a quiet debt it cannot repay in parts or hours.
The youngest aboard is now Huda Jaber, minutes old, asleep. 959 souls.
The hull ticks as it cools into the long night. Year 125, and I still log it faithfully: ticking, nominal.
Quiet shift. I re-run the arrival calculations for the 654th time. They have not changed. I find this restful.
I compare today's star field against day one's. The constellations have begun, very slightly, to come apart. Nobody else will look; that is what I am for.
I dim the corridor lights a shade for Vega Nwosu, 91. It is little enough.
Maintenance sweep of Ring A complete. Somewhere aft a wrench is missing; it will surface in a decade, in a wall, with a story attached.
Pallas Ning chooses Hydroponics — or it chooses him; the elders disagree cheerfully.
Census check: 959 souls, 114 of them children. The manifest balances to the person, as it must.